


still spoken

by mnemememory



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Consecution, Gen, M/M, mentions of abuse, plot summary: essek dies and is reborn as a human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemememory/pseuds/mnemememory
Summary: Essek is born (again) in weight, screaming bloody against the world.They can’t shut him up for three days. He screams, and screams, and screams.Then he goes quiet.(or; consecution AU - the one where essek dies and comes back human)
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Comments: 7
Kudos: 183





	still spoken

...

...

**still spoken**

...

...

Essek is born (again) in weight, screaming bloody against the world.

They can’t shut him up for three days. He screams, and screams, and screams.

Then he goes quiet.

His mother kneels down in front of him crib and holds her stomach and prays to something, anything. Her boy has ancient eyes, and she knows what that means. _Don’t take him away from me_ , she whispers to the dark.

He is named something different – something to soften the hard edges, something new. His mother takes pains to shape him into something without guilt. _Whatever you did_ , she whispers into his hair, _It does not define you_. There is a sad knowing in the lines of her face every time her son takes a stick and draws a perfect circle in the ground. He scratches words in the dirt that mean nothing to her, in a language (languages) that she could never comprehend.

Essek’s (second) mother loves him, and is terrified.

He grows. He grows tall, with dark skin and pale hair. He listens to the stories of old and does not falter:

 _The Mighty Nein_ , some whisper.

Essek’s eyes glow with old, deep knowledge.

“This is not you,” his mother says, desperate. She clutches onto his forearms and digs her nails deep into his skin. “You are my son. I brought you into this world.”

The boy nods. At night, every night, he quietly washes off the blood.

The world knows what the Kryn do, the way their Beacons burn light and life into barren landscapes. Essek’s mother has never met one before, but she has seen the funeral procession of a madman. It glittered bright atop a wooden platform, flanked by six individuals and a ghost. The wizard had been painfully tall and stooped half his height, the halfling quietly holding his hand. They are aged, and wearied, and terrifying. Essek’s mother never wants to see them again.

Essek grows taller, and taller, and taller, until his mother barely reaches his collarbones. He is only fifteen, but she has to push him down to stare into his eyes. She knows the evil the Kryn bring. She knows what they have done to her boy. She will not let them take him away from her.

“This is not you,” she says, and he nods, every time. There are puncture marks dotting his arms and bruises along the soft slope of his muscles. They aren’t in a bad way, but they aren’t very well off, and Essek goes out every day to daydream in numbers and chop wood. “Whatever anyone tells you, you are my son. Mine. I will not allow anyone to take you away.”

He nods. He is a good boy. He always does what she tells him to.

…

…

Essek wakes up on his sixteenth birthday and throws up.

He settles against the sheets for a long moment, vomit painting down his front, body shaking. His mother is in the next room over, humming quietly to herself. Essek strains his ears, but she doesn’t seem too upset, so he allows himself a moment of quiet reflection.

Here it is, he thinks. There’s almost a relief to it. Here is my weight.

He gets up. He changes into clothing that does not stink. He bundles up his bedsheets and takes them outside to the river, careful not to let his mother see as he slips past the door. Essek has gotten good at these kinds of things, over the years.

Essek settles against the bank of the river and struggles to keep breathing.

(He is dead).

(He is dead).

(He is _dead_ ).

What is the last thing he remembers?

Yesterday. Shivering underneath the covers of his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep so he may do the same. She has grown….intense, over the past week. More so than his previous birthdays, which had always been accompanied by cake and a thick, rolling sense of terror.

What is the last thing he _remembers_?

Caleb Widogast, glowing in fire.

Essek allows his lips to curl into a smile. He lifts his face towards the sun and bathes in the light. Underneath his skin, something itches. A knowing. _This is not for you_. Essek finds himself trembling under the onslaught, but can’t quite bring himself to go back inside. In his house, there are – were? – countless parasols of every shape and colour. All gifts. He remembers Jester Lavorre – _he remembers Jester Lavorre_ – coming over and going onto his roof and snapping them all open, to make a giant tent. He had loved those parasols dearly.

The knowledge that they are no longer necessary makes acid swill hard in his stomach.

It is for the best, Essek decides. There is a chance they may no longer even exist.

“Aldan,” his mother calls. Essek feels a jolt of unfamiliar fear pass through his stomach, and he takes a moment to settle it. It has been a long time since he has felt anything this strongly.

No. It had been yesterday.

(No. It had been sixteen years ago).

 _Breathe_ , he tells himself. The thought is absurd.

Essek gets up and turns towards their house. They have no neighbours – there might have been people, once, but his mother had moved them somewhere quiet and out of the way. He wonders about that, sometimes. What the world would have been like for Aldan, had Essek not existed instead.

“Coming,” he says. He leaves his sheets soaking against their small dam and walks towards the house.

His mother is shockingly pale against Essek’s own, darker skin. He has never met his father, to his knowledge, but he wonders sometimes. She is short, hair translucent and eyes a milky white. She takes his face into her hands and stares into his eyes.

“My boy,” she says. Essek’s skin crawls. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, mother,” Essek says.

“Come, I have prepared breakfast,” his mother says. She grabs his wrist and drags him roughly into the kitchen, positioning him down onto the seat. In front of him is a plate of buttered toast, bacon and eggs. Essek’s stomach rolls.

“Thank you, mother,” Essek says again.

He does not know where they live. His mother had been very careful to keep all knowledge of their whereabouts from sweet, sheltered Aldan. _My good boy_ , she says.

“Go on,” she says. She sits down in front of him and doesn’t look away. “Eat up.”

Essek eats up.

…

…

At night – for years now – Essek has dreamed of a scruffy wizard with the kindest eyes in the world.

Even before he remembered Caleb’s name, he knew his face. There are scars lining every inch of his body, face drawn tired beyond age. Essek remembers smoothing down the wrinkles with his fingers, remembers curling up against his side and shaking.

 _You are not absolved_ , Caleb Widogast tells him. _But you are loved_.

That’s all Essek has ever needed, really.

…

…

At sixteen years old and one day, Essek gets up early and leaves.

…

…

**Author's Note:**

> so i've been meaning to write this for ages. 
> 
> edit: i'm too stressed guys i think i'll keep this as a oneshot


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